Kiss You, Kill you
by melissakay
Summary: Barton/Romanoff slash set before Avengers. Natasha's got a hitman on her tail. But when he finally catches up to her, he doesn't get the reception he expects...


**Kiss You, Kill You**

She heard him before she saw him. Oh, he was trying so hard to be quiet, and he almost succeeded – she especially admired the way he managed to slink over fences like a supple young alley cat – but then he had to go and do a stupid thing like breathe. It was as though he'd been holding his breath for the past five minutes and had just realised he'd pass out if he didn't exhale.

She bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. He couldn't have given away his position more obviously than if he'd painted a big green arrow pointing toward the dark corner he'd crouched in, beside the Dumpster. The cold air didn't do him any favours, either. It turned his breath into a puff of fog which then drifted right past her on its way to oblivion.

Perhaps he thought she had turned the corner and kept running, unaware that she wasn't being pursued anymore. So he'd relaxed his guard for a moment, figuring he'd catch up to her eventually. It was a small town, miles from nowhere, and the only way out was on four wheels – or two. And no one seemed to have a working vehicle they wanted to sell, so for the time being, Natasha was stuck here, in No Man's Land. But then if she was stuck, so was he. It should have been a bad thing, but for some reason, Natasha was relishing the hunt. Crazy, she thought, shaking her head. _You're_ the prey, for Christ's sake!

The moon, unlike Barton, was apparently through with playing Hide and Seek. It slid out from behind a cloud, illuminating the entire alley, including the corner where her pursuer crouched, waiting – or regrouping. More likely the latter, she decided. He was like a machine, this one. Relentless, set on a one-way track like a God-damn freight train, only man-sized, and irritatingly resourceful, too. But even freight trains had to stop to refuel.

He was wiping his forehead with the hem of his black sleeveless tank, revealing a lean, athletic, but not overly-muscled torso. Hm, Natasha thought. Not bad. Not bad at all! She'd dealt with many an assassin before, and truth be told, most of them were gym-junkie douchebags with shoulders the width of a B-Double - no better than hired goons, really. Natasha didn't find anything sexy about a man with bigger boobs than she had. This one – Barton, she'd learned his name was – was quick on his feet, even quicker with a crossbow, and _very_ easy on the eye. She'd watched him kill whoever stood in his way to her without so much as a furrow of his brow, so she knew what he was capable of. The fact that he looked _good _cracking skulls and taking names was an unfortunate distraction for Natasha. She had to get the hell out of this alley, and fast, before the moon turned Judas on her, too.

'You know, Agent Romanoff, you can run forever, but you can't hide from me.'

Fuck. She'd loitered just a second too long. Damn those abs!

She chewed her lip, resisting the urge to hit him with a witty retort. With any luck he didn't see her, and was just trying to lure her out of her foxhole, if you could call it that. Actually, it was little more than a sealed off doorway to an old warehouse that had closed down several decades ago, by the look of the exterior. Still, it was a better hiding spot than his. He was on the wrong side of the Dumpster for it to have any kind of obscuring effect - at least, from her vantage point, anyway.

'I'll admit, you've been a damn fine adversary so far – for a girl. Really, I've got to hand it to you. I'm impressed.'

Am I supposed to be flattered? Natasha rolled her eyes. What does he take me for, an idiot? Does he think I'm going to swoon into his perfectly sculpted arms just because he paid me a compliment?

'But really, we're just delaying the inevitable. Aren't you tired of playing Cat and Mouse?'

Am I tired of living, you mean, Natasha wanted to reply. No, not really.

He seemed to revel in his little Oscar moment there by the Dumpster, crouching in the near dark and trying to come up with a provocative enough comment that would elicit some sort of response from her end. He even retrieved the nasty looking six inch hunting knife from his left boot and polished the blade with his tank top, serial-killer style. It was almost as if he had the water in the pot to boil and was just waiting for his dinner to jump up onto the chopping board, obligingly.

Not this little black duck, thought Natasha. Now, how the hell do I get out of here without having to run right past him? One end of the alley was closed off with a chain link fence that would chew up several seconds just climbing over – enough for him to pull out his crossbow, and take her down, then stride over to finish her off – and the other led to the street she'd come from.

There's more than one way to skin a cat, she remembered her late, great father saying.

Natasha looked up, and almost let out of a gale of relieved laughter. There was an old fire escape almost directly above her. Its ladder was long gone, but if she jumped she could reach the edge of the lowest landing. Once up there, she'd be a much harder target – unless he followed her. And knowing him, as she'd come to know him over the past few days, he'd follow her. And where did it lead to – another sealed off or locked door; or the roof? Either way was a sure dead end.

Natasha sighed with resignation. Might as well hit the fire escape, she told herself. Let's face it – what choice have I got? On the one hand, you've got the fence. Uh-uh. Certain death, there! On the other, the street – and yeah, he _might_ be stunned into inertia by your sheer nerve in running right past him, but I'm not holding my breath. Fire escape, it is!

Natasha stepped out from the relative safety of the doorway and twisting to the side, bent her knees slightly and jumped, the muscles in her legs coiling and releasing like a couple of well-oiled springs. Grabbing the edge of the landing, she pulled herself up, half expecting to catch an arrow in her thigh at the very least, but he hadn't fired; either from the bow, or the 9mm she'd seen him brandish on occasion but never seemed to see where he pulled it from. She'd seen how fast he could move when he wanted to. Why was he giving her a head start? Was he toying with her again?

She bolted up the iron stairs to the next landing, which opened onto a small window pane. The glass was cracked and only partially covered on the inside with a flimsy sheet of plywood. Glancing up, Natasha saw nothing but more stairs. At least the building would provide cover. God only knew what was in there, but it was better than the alternative. Wasn't it?

Natasha heard the ominous sound of footfalls on the iron stairs behind her. Shit, he's gaining on me was the last thought in her head before she put a foot through the cracked pane, shattering the glass and splintering the plywood. Kicking at the edges of the glass with the toe of her combat boot, Natasha climbed through. The window was only a couple of feet from the floor, but Natasha couldn't tell how supportive that would be, so rather than jumping down, she stepped down, gingerly, all too aware that with each second she wasted, time was running out. He _had_ to be close to the second landing by now.

She was almost afraid to glance back out the window, but forced herself to.

He wasn't there.

What the fuck?!

Had he fallen? She didn't hear anything like that. What was he doing?

Natasha felt beads of sweat blossom on her forehead. It was awfully hot inside the second floor of the abandoned warehouse, or factory, or whatever it was. She could barely see five feet in front of her. Why wouldn't eyes adjust to light as quickly as you wanted them to?

Feeling her way along the wall, Natasha kept an ear out for footsteps on the landing outside, all the while staring into the darkness in the vain hope that, like a cat, she'd suddenly develop keen night vision. _He's _the cat, her mind chided her. You're the mouse, remember? He's just amusing himself, watching you try to escape, and just when you think you're away, BAM! Down comes his paw on your tail, and you're as good as fucked. Hell, why even fight it?

Because you know nothing else, her inner voice told her. You wouldn't be you without a fight!

Finally, the abyss in front of her was starting to morph into what looked like a large – actually, cavernous - room devoid of furniture. The floor was old timber and Natasha could feel the nubby texture of embroidered wallpaper at her back. A wide arch right across from her opened up into another black pit. This isn't a warehouse, Natasha thought. This was some kind of ritzy apartment building, way back when. And maybe fire or some other tragedy soured buyers toward it, and it's been left to rot ever since. No – not fire. The only reason a place like this would be left vacant so long is if something _really _bad happened here. Like… murder, maybe?

If you don't move your ass, there _will_ be a murder committed here, she told herself. Yours!

Natasha sucked in a breath and listened for noise outside the window. But it was dead quiet. Too quiet.

Maybe he _has_ gone away, she dared to hope. Maybe he's been distracted by something – a homeless guy, maybe, or the police… If there are police _at all_ in this God-forsaken place! Maybe a passing patrol car slowed down to check the alley and he had to dive for cover? There were so many what if's, that Natasha almost wished her pursuer would pop up in front of her like a B-grade horror movie villain and get it over with. This not knowing where he was, was almost worse than the alternative.

As she moved her way along the wall she discovered what felt like an old-fashioned toggle light switch against her back. That's got to mean a doorway is close, doesn't it, she wondered. I mean, they don't just put light switches smack bang in the middle of a wall. Do they?

She reached out with her left hand and felt around until she found the door jamb she was looking for. Pulling her own weapon from its sheath, she wished she was in one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books she used to love as a child, where you could literally go in whichever direction seemed most interesting. If she could have chosen, she would have traded the three and a half inch pig sticker she now held, for her beloved old Smith and Wesson. It might not have blown him halfway across the room, but it would have made a nice dent in his plan to kill _her_. And it would have made her feel a little less vulnerable entering a dark room with no idea of what was ahead of her.

Still, like with the fire escape, she had little choice but to brave the next dark room and hope against hope that he chose the room beyond the arch instead of the smaller door. It would at least buy her some time. As she slipped into the darkness, she braved a peek back behind her. And there he was, climbing through the broken window pane. Natasha made a silent prayer that he'd be too big to get through, and would get stuck, but she knew she was pressing her luck there. He _was_ somewhat muscular, but in a lean, compact kind of way, and besides, he was barely six feet tall. In the end, the window proved to be little more than a moment's distraction.

Natasha tiptoed around the edge of the new room, using her hands as well as her limited vision to gauge the room's size and former use. It led onto a large tiled kitchen, so must have been some kind of formal dining room, again, without furniture. Moving on, Natasha found herself in a small hallway. She stopped and listened for Barton. Footsteps echoed through the expansive first room, but she was almost positive that he'd taken the wide arch, like she'd hoped. She couldn't believe the size of the place, and hoped it worked in her favour. By the time he worked out where she was, she'd be back out the window, down the street and stealing herself a getaway car.

She tried one of the doors in the hallway. Two opened onto what realtors would call 'cosy' bedrooms, and the third was a bathroom with an enclosed toilet. Dead end, thought Natasha, despairing. The footsteps were becoming louder. He's gaining, she thought, holding her pig-sticker in a death grip. Make a decision _now_, damn it!

Before she knew what was happening, the decision took her to the bathroom, only to find there was no lock on the door. Who the fuck doesn't lock a bathroom door? Natasha wondered. The toilet _has_ to have one. Surely!

Her heart sank as she ripped open the toilet door only to find an identical, smooth surface with no lock to speak of. Or if there had been one, it was there no longer. Natasha faced the fact that she was at the mercy of her pig-sticker – and her martial arts training – against a man she'd seen fight like a demon possessed. Cold, clinical and lightening fast, was what he was. She'd have to use his momentum against him. She stood beside the door, knife in hand, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

She had no idea how long she'd been standing there. It seemed like hours but was probably only twenty minutes. What was he doing? Had he really given up, after three whole days of solid pursuit? She thought it was hardly likely. It was more likely that he was laying in wait for _her_ to give up the ghost, and then pounce on her while she was unprepared. It had to be what he was doing, because that was what she would do.

Natasha sighed, and rubbed the back of her neck. She just wanted this over with. She was tired, damn it! She'd spent the past two nights running from this guy, trying to get the job done while somehow managing to not get killed. As it was, the target in Chinatown had been a touch dirty about having her on his case. He wasn't going to die without a knock-down, drag out fight. He died well; she had to give him that. He didn't even squeal when she smashed the wine glass in half and shoved the stem through his eye socket, straight into his brain. He just looked surprised.

All she wanted now was to go and find a great – well, good… actually, passable - Mexican restaurant and fill up on their most expensive beer and biggest plate of fajitas. Her stomach was beginning to let her know it had been several hours since she'd had anything to eat. And all this running and fighting used up precious fuel. If she compared herself to a car, she wasn't quite down to the smell of an oily rag, but she was getting there.

Taking a few slow, deep breaths, Natasha tightened her grip on the hilt of her knife and turned the door handle slowly. She'd almost made it a 360 degree turn when the door burst open on its hinges, flinging her arm back and almost causing her to lose her balance.

Barton stood in the doorway like a crack-Commando, bristling in his black tank and fatigues. He was obviously done with the waiting, too, because he strode into the room, grabbed her by the shoulder and pressed a 9mm handgun, equipped with a silencer, to her head. But before he could shoot, Natasha's survival training kicked in, and she swatted the gun away like it was nothing more than a fly. With her right fist she delivered what she hoped was a crushing blow to his solar plexus. But it did more damage to her hand than his diaphragm. She'd have thought he was wearing Kevlar under his shirt if he hadn't proved otherwise, earlier on.

Instead of doubling over in pain he merely grunted, grabbed her fist and sidestepped, swinging her around until she could see her darkened reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her wavy red bob hung over her face. She blew it out of the way just in time to spot Barton raise the gun and point it at the back of her head.

'You're not going to kill me with my back turned, are you?' she said. 'Isn't that the coward's way? Wouldn't you rather have me face you, so you can see the light leave my eyes? I hear you psychotic types like that.'

'I'm just doing my job,' he replied. 'Much like you did, back there in Chinatown.'

'Oh yeah?' Natasha said. 'Who put the contract out on me? I think if I'm going to die, I should at _least_ know who wants me dead.'

Barton shook his head. 'Sorry. Can't. Little insurance policy.'

'In case you fail?'

'Something like that,' he replied, as if the slight on his job performance barely raised a hackle. 'It happens. Not very often – not to me - but it happens. I suppose they're just covering their asses.'

'So it's a Them.'

'I can't tell you that.'

'You just did.' Natasha watched Barton frown in the mirror. 'The word 'they' might mean one person, but you used the word _asses._ Plural. There's more than one deep pocket behind this. So, how much do they think I'm worth?'

'Quarter of a mill.'

'Shit,' said Natasha, impressed. '_I'd _kill me for that, too.'

He chuckled. 'So you see, that's why I have to do this. Don't get me wrong – I've got nothing against you, Agent Romanoff. In fact, I've grown fond of you, in a weird kind of way. You've really had me on the run these last couple of days.'

'Well, I had work to do, and you were getting in the way of that.' Natasha said, wincing at the pain in her arm. 'You'd do the same thing, in my position.'

He nodded, agreeing. 'But still, you can see my side of things, right? I mean, someone offers me 250 grand for a job; I can't exactly knock it back. Not in these economic times. And like I said, I've got nothing against you. Please believe me when I say I get no joy out of this. You called me a psychopath before. I'm not. I'm a businessman.'

'Well there's a name for it I haven't heard before,' said Natasha, sarcastically. 'Lots of businessmen are psychopaths.'

He sighed. 'Call me what you like. You won't be calling anyone _anything_ in a couple of seconds.'

Natasha watched his reflection. It seemed so much easier to see now. Was it really almost sunrise? Had they been circling each other all night? It didn't seem possible! He looked tired, and almost… rattled. For a second the gun left the back of her head as he used the butt of it to scratch his head.

'Watch you don't blow the top of your head off, there,' Natasha joked. 'That _would_ be a pity.'

'The safety's on,' he told her. 'No, more pity me, having to blow _yours_ off. It's a damn fine head, if you don't mind me saying so.'

'I don't mind,' Natasha said, and she didn't, which was strange, really, because all her life she'd been told how pretty she was, and being a tomboy, it was the last thing she wanted to hear. But hearing it from him, well… that was different. It almost stirred… were those _feelings_?! 'You're not so bad, yourself.'

Did I just say that aloud?! God, shoot me now! Natasha thought.

He actually smiled at this. And he had a dimple, damn him! Dimples were Natasha's kryptonite, along with a sexy set of eyes, and he had those too. His smile gave him a carefree, boyish look, like he should be out on a sailboat or a football field, not in a dark, dilapidated apartment building, holding a gun to the head of some woman he barely knew.

'Really?' he said, sounding surprised. 'Nah…You're just trying to butter me up. I'm still going to kill you.' He tugged on her arm, as if doling out a little bit of extra pain was proof of his cold-bloodedness.

'Of that I have no doubt,' said Natasha, her mind racing. 'So how about you just get it over with, then? My arm's hurting.'

He blinked. 'Huh? Now you _want_ me to kill you?'

'Well I don't _want_ it, but since it's going to happen whether I like it or not, you might as well get on with it.' Natasha said. 'I'm not one for teary, prolonged goodbyes.'

He chuckled. 'A target with a sense of humour. I like it.'

Natasha saw her window. The butt of the gun shifted slightly as he laughed, and the pressure against her skull decreased. H e was distracted. She kicked backward, and caught him square in the family jewels, from the sound of the howl that followed. The gun glanced off her shoulder as it dropped to the ground, but truth be told, she barely felt it. He let go her arm and she spun, elbowing him in the cheek on her way around. His head snapped back, and he lost his footing altogether, crashing to the tiled floor, his quiver sliding off his shoulder and rolling toward the wall.

Natasha wasn't about to run this time. She scooped up Barton's gun, and straddled him, tilting her head to the side as she waited to see if he'd managed to knock himself out cold on the tiles.

No such luck. He blinked and stared up at her, quizzically. He didn't even object when she leaned forward and removed his crossbow from it's holster and put it out of harm's way, in the bathtub beside her. He must have been dazed by the fall - or the fact that her cleavage had been right in his face! She sat up straight and frowned.

'What?' There was nothing Natasha hated more than being scrutinized so closely. Even by those eyes!

'It's a paradox, really,' he said, not making any sense, as far as Natasha was concerned. 'On the one hand, I can totally see why my client wants you dead. It's a case of kill or be killed. On the other, I don't understand why someone would want to waste such… talent.'

'I'm flattered,' said Natasha. And for once there was no sarcasm in her tone at all. 'But that was nothing. Believe me.'

'Oh, I believe you,' he said. 'I think I've barely scratched the surface of what you're capable of. Am I right?'

'You're getting there,' Natasha said, liking the way he felt beneath her. They fit together like Lincoln Logs. 'Sounds to me like you're having a crisis of confidence.'

'Conscience, more like it,' he corrected her. 'As I said before, it's a waste, from what I've seen so far. I almost feel like I'd be robbing the world of something truly… unique.'

'_Ridding, _you mean.' It was Natasha's turn to correct him. 'I kill people remember? Just like you.'

'Yeah, well,' he said, shifting slightly.

The movement almost unbalanced Natasha, and her thighs gripped his flanks tighter. She felt like she was riding a horse that was starting to get antsy.

'I've always had a conscience; I just don't tend to let it run my life.'

'Neither do I,' said Natasha. 'So where does this crisis of conscience leave me?'

He shrugged. 'I guess it means I don't kill you, after all.'

Natasha stared at him. Was she hearing right? He was giving up, just like that? 'What? What about the money?' She asked, barely believing her luck. This had to be a trick. Well, she was just as capable of playing those as he was.

'What about it? I don't _really_ need it. I'm comfortable.'

'So am I,' said Natasha, but she wasn't talking about her financial status!

He blinked, not understanding. So she showed him what she meant, sliding a hand up his torso to the neck of his tank top, bunching the material in her fist and pulling it toward her. 'Take this off.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'What?'

She smiled at him, serenely. 'I'm going to show you how grateful I am about your sudden change of heart. Unless you don't swing that way…'

'Oh, I do… I do,' he said, quickly. His cheeks reddened. 'Are you serious?'

'Deadly.'

'But… we don't know each other…'

Natasha gave him a reproachful look. 'And killing someone is less intimate than fucking them?'

He considered this. 'You've got a point, there.'

'So,' said Natasha, tugging on the top again, 'Get this thing off and let me thank you, properly, then.'

He didn't so much take the tank top off as practically rip it from his back. Natasha watched the muscles in his torso flex and contract with an almost clinical fascination. He had nice shoulders too, but the arms… it was the arms that held her attention the longest. They were like a work of art, with their long patterns of veins clearly visible against his fair skin, the biceps and triceps so perfectly sculpted that he almost looked surreal. Natasha reached out and ran her fingertips along the inside of his left arm, aware that if her fingernails had been long enough, she could have opened a vein, they were so prominent.

'That tickles,' said Barton.

'So does this,' Natasha replied, leaning forward until her lips met his collarbone. She left a trail of kisses so light she could barely taste his skin, up his neck to his earlobe. His perfect arms folded around her, holding her body against his, but behaving themselves… for now.

She kissed her way up to his lips, and their eyes met. One hand snuck up to touch her hair, tuck it behind her ear; stroke her cheek. It wound its way behind her head and pulled her down toward him. Then they were kissing, and Natasha couldn't remember the last time her blood pounded in her ears so hard she was almost deaf to anything else. Back in high school, behind the shelter shed, maybe? That first secret, thrilling make-session with the guy she'd been crushing on for months? But this was so much bigger than that. This was life and death. A moment ago he'd been about to kill her. He still might.

Maybe the threat of death does that to people. It must, because their passion was so intense it was almost excruciating. She could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, keeping time with hers. She vaguely registered a need to breathe, but oxygen was an abstract concept at that point. One of his arms held her to him with a power of a steel brace. The hand on the end of the other was in her hair. Natasha's own hands stayed glued to Barton's shoulders, right up close to his neck, her thumbs splayed out over his collarbones as if ready, at a moment's notice, to switch from kiss to kill mode, should he give her any reason. It was a sheer physical habit, more than anything. The rest of her body might have been falling under his spell but her hands were independent thinkers!

His hands were now making their way down her back, slipping under the edge of her shirt, warming her skin while at the same time sending shivers up her spine. His thumbs hooked in the waist band of her jeans and slid them down, taking the opportunity to cop a feel on the way, of course! She smiled against his lips, and snaked one of her own hands down to the front of his fatigues, rubbing him through the rough fabric. He closed his eyes and broke away from her mouth, obviously struggling to keep his composure.

'Stop,' he whispered. 'It's too much.'

'You started it.'

'How?'

'You grabbed my butt.'

'That's not even on the same level.'

She laughed and kissed him again. 'Whatever you say… Wait.' She pulled up, and looked him square in the face. 'I just realised… I'm about to sleep with someone and I don't even know his first name.'

'Clint.'

'Sounds sexual.' She grinned.

'You're hopeless.'

She didn't argue with that. Instead, she unzipped his pants and slipped a hand inside his shiny black boxer shorts. He arched his back as her fingers tightened around him. 'If you keep it up,' he said, through clenched teeth, 'it'll be over before it begins.'

'Oh I'm sorry,' said Natasha, sliding her jeans down her legs and discarding them on the bathroom floor. 'Wouldn't want that, would we?'

'Well, I can't imagine it would do all that much for _you_,' he pointed out. 'This was your idea, after all. You should get _something_ out of it.'

Oh I'm getting something, don't you worry, thought Natasha!

She helped him remove his pants; then climbed back on, taking his hand in hers and putting it wherever she wanted it. He let out a shuddery breath, and pulled her close to him, flipping her so that he was on top before she even knew what had happened. He braced himself on his elbows and kissed her cheek, her lips, her chin, and that soft bit of sensitive skin just under her earlobe. Natasha arched herself up to meet him, and wrapped her leg around his. He responded by kissing her lips, hard, insistent. It was almost as if he was prolonging her agony. She just flat-out _wanted _him, and he was holding back.

She reached down and touched him, somehow silky and rock hard at the same time, and guided him to her; inside her. He had to stop kissing her for a moment, to remember to breathe. She wrapped her legs around him and ran her fingertips over the muscles in his back as he thrust into her, again and again, increasing the tempo as they both reached orgasm, almost simultaneously. But then, she knew that would happen. She knew from the first second their lips touched, that they would be completely in sync with each other.

'Jesus,' he gasped, as he exploded inside her. 'Agent Romanoff…'

'Natasha.' She closed her eyes as the last wave hit.

'Natasha… 'He kissed her again. 'I'm really; _really_ glad I didn't kill you!'


End file.
